


The Games We Play

by Minka



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minka/pseuds/Minka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just Robb and his mind and Jon and his inability to think clearly.  That was all that existed; the here, the now and the fleeing tension between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> Not too sure where this came from. Mostly inspired by a prompt from Anonymous of ‘ _Robb treats Jon like a personal property, using him and then throwing him away when he's done, and becoming jealous when someone else becomes interested.’_ But I kind of bastardized that and just used it as influence. The rest can be partly blamed on the fact that I had a bad day and am angry as all hell.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

That was how it started. A simple sentence. A subject, an ambiguous reference and a declaration of generalized abhorrence. Simple as it was, the words were spat with such venom and conviction that Jon paused, hands no longer tugging at the leather straps that held on his training greaves.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah,” Jon muttered, his attention wavering. “I heard the ranting of a crazy man.” Robb was in one of those moods; Jon could tell just by the look on his face. When Robb got like this then Jon got snappy and irritated. Maybe it was some brotherly – half-brotherly – link or something in their heads that had them somehow in tune with each others moods. One snapped one way and the other followed suit. Or maybe Jon was just too tired and sore to really try and find a cause for the situation. Either way, Robb’s attitude had him up in arms and when that happened, Jon got tetchy. He knew it created a never ending loop of bad attitudes but Jon couldn’t help it. When met with snark, he replied in kind.

Deft fingers went back to work, pulling straps of worn leather through dull buckles until the guard could be slid off.

“You like it.”

Jon sighed, wrapping the leathers around the padded greave and placing it with its twin on the bench beside him. He looked up at Robb from under his hair, a scowl of confusion twisting his features and the words came out snappier than he intended. “Like what?”

“How he looks at you.”

Simple sentences. That was all that Robb was good for at the best of times. In dark moods though, he seemed to fail at even those. Simplicity was one thing, but making sense was something entirely different and right now Robb was doing a good job of massacring the definitions of both.

“You’re going to have to give me a bit more information to-”

“Theon.” Robb interjected, the name bitten out and harsh. Rough to the sound like the syllables tasted bad in his mouth.

Jon could have laughed. In fact he did, just a little. Theon? Yeah, Jon loved the way he looked at him. Like he was the scum on the bottom of Theon’s shoe. It had a way of making his heart flutter and turning his legs into mush like some smitten milk maid.

“Please. Seriously?”

“I see it. He looks at you like he wants to devour you and you, you just… It makes me sick!” Robb was on a rant, the words coming out fast and almost slurred, his anger taking control. It was all Jon could do to stop from outright gagging at the idea of him looking at Theon in any way that didn’t scream malice. “It’s in your eyes. The way you look at him back; it is disgus-”

“We’re not having this conversation,” Jon took his turn to cut Robb off, his tone short and abrupt. Shaking his head to himself, Jon pushed himself out of his seat, his muscles groaning in agony. It had been a long day, he had pushed himself further with the sword then even he thought possible and his body was sore and stiff from the strain. That and he just wasn’t in the mood for one of Robb’s odd temper tantrums.

“Are you fucking him?” That stopped Jon dead in his tracks, his face screwing up at the mere thought. Turning back to his brother, Jon allowed him to see that very look, his head still shaking in utter disbelief.

“Did you hit your head?” Jon asked with what could only be described as mock concern. That was the only plausible explanation for Robb’s question and, if he had in fact not hit his head in training, then Jon was more than willing to smack some sense into him right now. “You are starting to sound a little crazy there, brother,” he added for good measure, his feet finally finding the will to move once again. The sooner he got out of here the better.

Robb wasn’t having any of it though and in a flash he was moving. And so was Jon.

Caught off guard, Jon had no time to react to the hand that closed roughly around his upper arm, yanking him backwards. His feet could barely keep up with his body as Robb all but threw him towards the wall. Jon’s back hit first, his shoulder blades crunching against the stone and his head quickly following. It left him disorientated and confused; two things that he never liked to feel. Then, all too quickly, Robb was right there, blocking his way and pushing him backwards, one hand grabbing at Jon’s sword arm and the other moving into dangerous territory.

Robb’s hand was heavy against the base of Jon’s throat, pinning him easily against the wall. Breath trapped, it was all Jon could do to stare back heatedly at the taller man.

“Robb, what the-”

“I asked you a question, Snow. Are you fucking him? Or is it the other way around?” Robb took a moment to chuckle bitterly to himself, his face mere inches from Jon’s. “That’s more likely, isn’t it? I bet you went begging to him; begging and pleading until he gave in.”

Jon could feel himself getting angry. Robb of all people knew how much he hated Theon. He was right up there with Lady Stark, though that was one clash of personalities that Jon never even voiced to his half-brother.

“Not going to stand up for yourself?” Robb demanded, his words cutting into Jon’s train of thought and his eyes ablaze. Robb had a way with his anger that reminded Jon of Lady Stark. It was all in the eyes, in the tight lines of his lips and the way his face seemed to darken. He grew in his anger too. Always slightly taller, Robb now towered above Jon, his presence stretching up to encompass all that Jon could see.

“Come on, Snow. Are you really that speechless now that you have been caught out? Or are you just pathetic?” Robb’s hand tightened and Jon had the intelligence to know that this was all about to go sour really quickly.

Jon wanted to tell the other he was being stupid. No, that he _was_ stupid. There was a clear-cut difference and right now Robb was acting out the very definition of that line between.

But calling the other out on his actions wasn’t going to help the situation at all. One didn’t tell a hungry wolf that they couldn’t hunt. The world didn’t work that way and Jon, ever the bastard son, was well aware of that.

They said that bastards grew up quicker than most and it was a notion that Jon had long since agreed. In fact, it was to the point that he was starting to suspect that he was older than Robb. Not that he had any justifications to back that up, but sometimes he had the feeling of having an astute man residing in his head and heart, and those were always the times that Robb acted like a spoilt child, not a man of age.

“You know you don’t want to push this.” The words came out short and hollow, the struggle for oxygen taking its toll. But it worked. There was that flash of realization in Robb’s eyes that he got when he knew he was being a fool. It didn’t last long – it never really did – but it was there and for a moment those eyes showed clarity. The calm before the real storm set in.

Robb’s hand pushed Jon backwards again, making his point in a way that would bruise just as his other hand grabbed roughly at Jon’s hip. That too was pressed against the wall; painful, hard and commanding. Jon was going nowhere and apparently, yes, Robb did want to push this subject.

Jon felt his head getting turned to the side, his neck stretched under those large fingers like some creature offering its blood to a wolf. Robb stepped in closer, his hips brushing against Jon’s and his chest pressing in. Breath hot against his skin, Jon couldn’t help but shiver at the words whispered to his exposed throat.

“Maybe I need to remind you who you belong to.”

Jon could feel his pulse racing against the tight grip around his throat. He wondered if Robb liked that, if he thought it put him in power and gave him control. Maybe he even believed that Jon’s heart was racing purely for him, for the way his body was moving lewdly against his.

Maybe, in a way, Jon put those thoughts into Robb’s head to save himself from thinking them on his own.

Realization broke like waves on rocks and like it or not, Jon felt his cheeks flush slightly. It was asphyxiation. That was what he tried to tell himself. Lack of air; of course he would go red before turning a lovely shade of blue. It was as good an excuse as any, given the current situation, though that didn’t explain the noise. Part moan, part rasp, the sound caught in Jon’s throat like a sword cleaving into thick bone.

That was when Robb struck, all teeth and fire. He bit angrily at the lobe of Jon’s presented ear, sucking it into his mouth and rolling his tongue around the abused flesh. His hand moved to grip Jon’s jaw, forcefully holding him in place while he grit out his fury. At least it gave Jon a moments respite to suck in a few desperate gulps of air.

Nothing lasted when it came to them. The good times, the bad times; they all shattered as quickly as ice crystals in a warm summer breeze. They would laugh and joke, run and act as carefree as they wanted and then Theon would slap them down. Bastard, he would say, or tell them that they were acting like children. The laughs would stop, the grappling would cease and the moment would be ruined. Weapons training always ended, either Robb or Jon in the dirt, panting and swearing while the other towered above. The good and the bad, the innocent and the brutal; two stark contrasts of what their lives were and what they were being groomed to become.

Now was no different. One moment Jon could breathe and was about to brave rational thought and then the next he was gasping as that large hand closed in over already protesting skin. Lips left his ear, the wetness that remained freezing in the chill afternoon air. Jon shivered and this time his mind was clear enough to know that it wasn’t the pleasant kind.

Robb’s thumb moved around his throat, hooking Jon straight under the jaw and pushing; wrenching. There was no other option than to turn with it and look the other man in the eyes and that was exactly what Jon did. They were dark eyes; far darker than Jon ever remembered them.

“You’re mine, Snow.”

Normally they were exact opposites. Jon was the fiery one; quick to temper and quicker still to react. It left Robb with ice, always more likely to seek the rationality of a situation before taking action. Bastard, half brother or just friends, between the two, they worked. Fire and ice; hot and cold; brawn and brain.

But right now Robb was all hell fire and heat and that threw the balance. Jon tried to adapt and adjust, his brain telling him that sparks begot flame while ice quenched, yet it obviously wasn’t working. Even Jon’s cold indifference came scorching.

Regarding his half-brother with contempt, Jon’s left eyebrow rose slightly, his jaw setting tightly around that probing finger. He was getting his senses back and they were screaming at him.

“Back off.” His tone didn’t allow for argument.

Robb’s hand tightened in response, his eyes showing that he was in no mood to back down. Jon couldn’t breathe. It had been hard before but now with Robb’s large hand closed securely over his throat he could feel a burn festering in his lungs. Sight blurred as blind panic started to set in. Lips parting, Jon rasped for air that wasn’t coming.

And then Robb’s mouth was against his, crushing and hard and intent on devouring what little air Jon had left. The hand on his hip turned into a claw, scratching and pushing as if he could mould Jon into whatever shape he deemed fit. Said shape involved smashing Jon’s back flush against the wall and stepping inwards, crushing his body and wrenching the remains of air out of his lungs like fruit squeezed dry. Teeth nipped, Jon’s bottom lip throbbed and then he could taste blood. Robb’s tongue spread the coppery tang into Jon’s mouth as he forced his way inside, taking and demanding and giving nothing back while he shoved a knee in between Jon’s legs.

Pinned and stuck and struggling for air, Jon let his eyes close for a moment. Whether it was from pleasure or pain, the spinning of his lightening head or a twisted mixture of all three, even he couldn’t tell. But his eyes closed and Robb chuckled in reply, his knee lifting to press in against Jon’s legs, pushing them further apart.

They had never been tender lovers, always involved in a private battle of pointless bravado. Neither liked to give in, neither liked to be coddled or petted. They were both too strong for that; too intent on proving themselves in whatever games that they played. Bodies would collide, giving both pleasure and pain till neither could tell the different between. Release always came with bruises and scratches, teeth marks and busted lips standing as signs of their encounters that would show for days.

And something about seeing those marks during the days that followed just made the game even more desperate the next time it was played. Jon loved the way Robb would lick at his split lip tentatively while listening to his father. Or the way he would slowly rotate his shoulder before sword practice, working out the strain caused by holding Jon down on the bed. Little signs, little things easily explained away that stood as testimony to their secret. Truths that only they knew.

Sometimes Jon thought Robb liked it too much though. He delighted in leaving Jon stunned and shocked, limping and constantly fiddling with his fur pelt to make sure the purple marks of teeth and sucking lips were hidden. More times than was fair Jon struggled to hold his sword high, his wrists screaming in protest and throbbing from bring roughly encircled the night before.

Robb would look at him with a knowing smile, a smirk that was dark and possessive and full of pompous self assurance. Perhaps Jon was seeing too much that wasn’t there, but it was at times like those that he was sure he could read the other man’s mind. Robb liked seeing Jon slower, liked seeing him reconsider the way he was standing. After all, it was Robb who had inflicted those pangs of hurt; he was the cause of Jon’s discomfort. No one else.

That was their usual game. Some would call it perverted, some would shudder at the thought of exerting such force but for them it worked. It was what they both needed. An outlet that didn’t involve the entire household of Winterfell watching them swing practice swords while muttering that they would never be men enough for a real battle.

But right now Robb was pissed and Jon was angry and this wasn’t right.

None of their sessions started angry, none of them violent. It was always gentle at first, almost hesitant. It was wrong, after all. Slow touches, shy and apologetic to the bruises left to fade; the kind rub of a calloused thumb over a healing lip. Minutes of care and consideration existed, silent looks and hissed confessions of lingering pain when massaged. But then hands started to wander and egos started to inflate and before long the illusions that either of them was weak or fragile like a doll disappeared in a flurry of clawing fingers and crashing mouths.

Escalation. That was where it went from there. Desperation set in; need and want and desire taking over and that was how, come the next day, Jon would be left with a limp and Robb would walk like he’d long been at sea.

Memories of nights past made the here and now feel even more unsettling.

Jon fought back.

He didn’t know if his actions were driven by the routine they always played or if it was something else. Something inside him stirring to life at the idea of being threatened, perhaps, or maybe it was the simple need to get to the bottom of what had lead to this attack. Whatever their secret games were, they were not instigated under spite and venomous comments; Jon liked to think that there was a part of his mind that was conscious and clear enough to know the difference. Then and now. Here and before. This was different and he didn’t like the way it made his heart race. Not out of anticipation or longing, but out of fear.

It was simple to dislodge Robb, almost painfully so. A hard stomp forward crushed Robb’s toes, causing the distraction and then it was merely a matter of gaining the upper hand. Jon moved fast, even in his anger, and grabbed at Robb’s index finger, peeling it backwards from his throat and yanking it down with his left hand. It was a nasty trick but it worked. Robb’s nails grazed skin, scratching and burning as they went but Jon didn’t feel the pain. He concentrated on twisting that wrist so far back that Robb was off balance, his arm inverted in a desperate attempt to keep the limb from snapping. From there all it took was a step to the right, another yank of that arm and his right hand clipping Robb upside the back of the head. Hard.

Jon pushed Robb forward, used his left foot to sweep at the other’s legs and just like that, Robb was stumbling past Jon’s left shoulder.

Robb’s head collided with the wall, the sound a dull thunk that almost had a grin spreading across Jon’s face. He was no sadist but even he could see the irony behind the hollow sound.

And just like that Robb was on his knees on the floor, his hand pressed against the wall for balance and Jon could breathe again.

The bigger they were, the harder they fell. Jon had learnt that lesson a long time ago. He had always been smaller and thinner. Like a twig hoping to smash through a branch as it fell. The years had changed that though, scrawny arms giving way to muscle and hours of training had formed hard ridges across his body. It seemed like it had happened overnight. One day he was still the one that Theon picked on and kicked dirt at, who always lost to Robb in the practice ring; the one who had to rely on his quick limbs and nimble sense of balance in order to dodge and scurry away.

Then, one day, he outlasted Robb at training. The next he beat him, fair and square and the day after that he had Robb disarmed and on his backside in the dust before beads of sweat could mat his hair together. He got stronger and faster, smarter and more daring. He dominated the sword and hand to hand sessions. He rode faster and surer through denser forest than Robb was willing to brave and stood his ground against Theon with bow and target.

And with that his fear of repercussions for his actions blurred. It was still there and more and more of late he consciously allowed his half-brother to win. Yet when battle lust took over, he didn’t care that he was grounding the future Lord of Winterfell’s sword wrist into the gravel of the training yard. Why should he hide his skills and downplay his abilities simply for the sake of reputations.

That was when things changed between him and Robb. That was when they had met for the very first time in the darkness of Jon’s minimalistic room, both worn and bruised from round after round in the ring. They had looked at each other – really looked – and the silence between them spoke more than any words. The fire crackled noisily, wood popping and sparking under the heat and then that was all that either of them knew. Heat. Desperation. The clash of bodies like steel on a battlefield. Groping and the tearing of fabric and the sheer force of two groomed soldiers battling for the upper hand.

Nothing had been the same since and Jon had the blurry knowledge that everything was changing again. Robb on the floor, Jon shocked and speechless as his throat burned yet still on his feet. The rules had shifted and campaigns had been won and conquered and all Jon could think of was; where do we go from here?

“Bastard.” The word cut instantly, slicing through more than just the silence between them. Deep and long, it was the sort of wound that would take to festering.

Jon was used it to; he hated the term but there was no hiding what he was. Especially not with the likes of Theon Greyjoy and Lady Stark around to remind him of his social standing and part in the world; nowhere and nothing. There was hardly a day that went by when he didn’t hear the word.

But it never came from Robb.

It was where they drew the line. That mark in the sand between them and their rivalry. The moment that defined the difference between their play hate and those that were actually against them.

Jon could remember a day when Robb had snapped. Theon was in full glory, taunts and insults flying as he and Jon sparred, back in the days when Jon was the runt of the group; the one struggling to fit in and yet destined to forever be on the outside. Bastard had come out once too many, the words stinging more than the blows Jon failed to deflect and each time the word hit home, Jon found himself weaker.

Robb had lost his control, yelling words and kicking up dirt as he came flying in. Bastard son beat enemy ward. He and Jon were like one; Theon was the outsider.

Jon was young – they all were – but right then and there, there was a part of him that knew he was taken with Robb. Not love, none of them understood that, but there was something. A tinge of affection, a stirring of something more than the emotions that bonded unlikely siblings.

It was that exact memory that made the single, common and true word hurt all the more.

If Jon was a lesser man, he would have kicked Robb right then, while he was down. A well planted boot to his side that would have lifted the other off the floor and rolled him over, just from the sheer force of Jon’s anger. But that wasn’t him. Angry, yes, but needlessly violent was something he never wanted to become.

So instead he matched fire with fire and presented that kick in the form of words.

“I may be the bastard son,” he spat out, his hand rubbing gingerly at his abused throat. His heart was beating wildly in his cheat, matching the rhythm of a drum summoning war. He wondered if Robb could hear it in the silence of the room. “But you’re the one who fucks me. Which of us do you think brings more shame to father?”

The world shattered. Cold winds stirred and Jon had the sudden feeling that winter was in fact coming. The chill came from Robb and not for the first time Jon had to wonder if the other’s mood affected the weather. That fire in Robb’s eyes died in an instant, like flames doused with ice water and his face crumpled.

Silence.

Jon could hear the sound of his haggard breathing, his lungs burning with each suck of air. He could hear the way that Robb panted, the way the hand supporting him against the wall slowly started to slip. Then finally, the long, wavering sigh that came with defeat.

“Jon.” Gone was fight in his tone; gone was the use of his insulting last name. It was just Robb and his mind and Jon and his inability to think clearly. That was all that existed; the here, the now and the fleeing tension between them.

Maybe he was weak; perhaps he was an idiot destined to be used and used again, but that was all the apology Jon needed. Just his name. Soft and pained, full of remorse and the look in Robb’s eyes that said more than either of them could bear to hear.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s really not.”

Jon’s mouth opened, the words right on the tip of his tongue. ‘Do you want to fill me in’, was what he had hoped to say. Demand the reason for Robb’s irrational ways; get to the bottom of the fire that had been scolding in his eyes.

But Robb beat him to it. “You have to, don’t you?”

“What?”

And fucked if it wasn’t exactly how this all started. A simple sentence. A subject, an ambiguous reference and a declaration of generalized abhorrence.

“You have to go. To the wall.”

“Yeah.” And maybe then Jon finally understood; that was why he skipped only three heartbeats before replying, not more.

Letting out a sigh that felt like it was ripping his throat in half, Jon pressed his back against the wall, marvelling in the warmth he found there. Maybe he had been consumed with the same hell fire that Robb had. Knees bending, he lowered himself down, startled by just how much his legs shook at the movement. Was he really that scared, or was he just tired? Maybe it was a mixture of both now that the adrenaline of Robb’s attack was leaving his system.

“It would have been easier if…” The words trailed off, dying like the heart of a hunted rabbit. Jon looked to the side, his eyes focusing in on Robb’s hanging head and the weighted look on his face that managed to pull even his shoulders down.

“If…?” he prodded, for once not being able to see inside Robb’s thoughts.

Robb hesitated, the words catching oddly in his throat. Jon wasn’t used to seeing that and he knew that Robb didn’t want it seen. He looked away, his eyes staring at the wall across the room. All he saw was blocks of hewn ice stacked towards the sky and a castle with walls as black as night. His future, no matter how bleak it might be.

“…if there was someone else. If you left me, but didn’t leave here. That would be easier.” There was a pause; Jon’s heart beat faster. He could feel it in the mistreated skin around his neck. “I just wanted to… to believe. Because it would have been easier.”

Jon closed his eyes, the world around him turning black before pale blue ice exploded in his imagination. It provided no solace at all.

Movement; the shuffle of clothing and an exhale of air that sounded muffled, as if Robb was trying to hide the sound. Jon kept his eyes closed, not wanting to brave the sight of his usually so stoic brother in such a state. Then Robb’s hand was there, in Jon’s lap and closing around his own. At his throat, Robb’s hand had felt too big, like a bear about to snap Jon in two, yet there, their fingers lacing together, Jon had the sinking feeling that Robb’s hand was just the right size.

And that made leaving even harder. Jon hated it; cursed the world and dreamt of different times and different circumstances.

And then he opened his eyes and faced reality. Harsh and cold and uninviting and filled with desolate white and hewn black.

“You know,” Jon said, simply to have the silence broken. “I really do hate Theon.”

Robb stifled a laugh beside him, the sound more like sob mixed with a hiccup and Jon felt that hand tighten around his. It wasn’t the constrictive feeling of it at his throat; this was caring and full of utter understanding.

“I know, Jon. I know.”

*****


End file.
